


With Eager Feeding

by likeadeuce



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Kitchen Nightmares RPF, Richard II - Shakespeare, Shakespeare Histories - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Gen, Harm to Animals, Haven't you always wanted a monkey?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4694132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Albion is in grave danger.</p><p>Gordon Ramsay has a week to turn it around.</p><p>Kitchen Nightmares AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Eager Feeding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ICryYouMercy (TrafalgarsLaw)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrafalgarsLaw/gifts).



> Not actually Gordon Ramsay.
> 
> Or John of Gaunt, or Richard II either, for that matter.
> 
> This story is not based on a particular production, but Richard's monkey appears specifically in the Hollow Crown.
> 
> Title is from Richard II, II.1.42: "With eager feeding, food doth choke the feeder."

We're sitting near the back of a nearly empty and decidedly second rate London bistro, the only one on this block in which neither of us has any ownership interest, when Jack Gaunt steeples his fingers, leans across the table toward me and intones, in a deep and resonant voice, "This little world, this dear dear place, this banquet hall of long-dead kings – old friend, I hate for these words to pass my lips, but I fear I must confess. Albion is in grave danger."

Now. I'll be the first to tell you: in this business, in this city, we play for high stakes. And I've heard the rumours, same as anyone, that things have changed at Albion since Jack's wanker of a nephew took over as majority owner. Still. All this throne of kings, earth of majesty, airline commercial bullshit seems a bit overblown for one stodgy old restaurant in a city that has, literally, thousands of them – especially when old Jackie could probably buy and sell a dozen without noticing the difference in his balance sheet.

"You're being a twat, Jack," I say, since nobody calls me because they want a diplomatic, safe-for-work answer, "An overdramatic twat. I walk by Albion all the time, you've got plenty of punters." 

"They're not punters," Gaunt says, in a voice so cold it would make liquid nitrogen redundant. "Punters _pay_. What you see are Richard's friends, drinking on the house and taking up tables while they 'brainstorm' –" I can hear the inverted commas around every word – "'conceptual' 'art' 'projects.'"

Granted, that does not sound like the Albion I know. But it doesn't make me want to go there, and it damn sure doesn't make me want to put it on television. "Look, man, I respect you. And it sucks you're not getting on with your brother's kid. But this doesn't sound like my kind of problem."

"Isn't this what you do? On that television program of yours?"

I do lots of things, on lots of different television programs, a fact that Jack and his family have even more reason to know than most people in the English-speaking world. But I can tell what he's getting at, and I'm ready to finish this meeting so that I can stop pretending to eat this crap omelette, and get the hell out of this rubbish café so the staff can stop pretending not to recognize me. "I do kitchen nightmares. I go to restaurants that want my help and have problems that look interesting on television. I don't like people trying to use my show for leverage in ownership disputes, and 'Little Dickie's friends don't pay their bills and also he fired my son' isn't the kind of thing --."

"This isn't about Henry," Gaunt snaps, just in time for me to remember he hasn't said a word about his son, and that I've just barreled smack into the elephant in the room.

Even I have enough couth to know I fucked that one up. Even I know better than to get on Jack Gaunt's bad side. "I'm sure this has been tough for Henry," I say, "not to have a permanent kitchen of his own. You know I think he's a very talented chef –"

"I know," Gaunt interrupts, "that you think he's an extremely competent chef. Also wedded to repeating a few basic concepts that become familiar without being distinctive, and ultimately keep him from displaying the signature of a truly great chef. As though, if I recall the specific phrasing, he doesn't understand what cooking is _for_."

I manage a perfunctory smile. "So you _do_ watch my shows." I _had_ said those things – more colloquially, but Jack has the basic gist -- about Henry Bolingbroke-Gaunt, when I cast the deciding vote to eliminate him from the semifinal round on the highest-rated season of one of the UK's more prestigious competition shows. This is how it works. They bring you on to provide blunt, colorful commentary and then the culinary world is smaller than you thought it was and you have to keep running into the people you said it about, and their asshole fathers. It's a monster I helped create, and it's worked well for me but sometimes you want to look a man in the eye and say, _It's not my fault your son can't get a top-tier job._

And it's not. Henry's just having bad luck. Since whatever happened to get him thrown out of Albion's kitchen, Henry has taken a series of high-profile guest jobs – not just in London but Madrid, Paris, New York. Nothing has worked out in the long term, and this honestly surprises me. Not because he's tremendously talented, but because he knows the right people and there are plenty of equally uncreative chefs who know the right people doing perfectly well for themselves, though I know better than to make that point. I also don't try to argue that Gaunt could get Henry a job at any of the other places _he_ owns. Albion is the jewel in the family crown, and since he can't have that, implying Henry needs his father to set him up somewhere else is an insult. 

I steer the topic back to the subject of this particular kitchen nightmare. "Aumerle's not working out, then?" Teddy Aumerle is yet another Gaunt relative, the one Richard put into Henry's spot as head chef. I've run across him at an exposition in Leeds and frankly thought he was about on par with his better-known cousin. Plus, he has a face television would love, and I filed him away in my memory for that reason. Not enough to actually go in his restaurant, but then, I'd never gone to Albion when Henry was cooking there, either.

"Edward is inconsequential," says Jack. "Not that he and Richard are particularly good influences on each other, but Ted could get by in a better kitchen. The sous chefs though – they're all Richard's friends. I don't think Bushy even went to culinary school. They're slow, they're always slagging off for smoke breaks. The waitstaff do what they can, but everything's cold by the time it gets out. Unless it's supposed to be cold, in which case it's melted." 

"This sounds more like something I can work with. But you understand, I'll need waivers from everyone and I'll definitely need the majority owner's permission before I can come in and stick a camera in his face."

"It's still thirty percent my restaurant," Jack says. "My sister Edna – Teddy's mother -- owns another nineteen." 

"And you can talk Richard into being on camera?"

Gaunt laughs. "Show him a camera and you won't be able to stop him. Richard will be your kitchen nightmare."

"Hmm, maybe. But I'm not just doing this because I feel bad about things with Henry. You still need to convince me it will make good TV. Anything weird or off the wall going on there – the more visual the better."

"Yes, well --" he begins, and I can he tell he's been saving this one. "I've never been an expert on health codes. But – I don't imagine you're supposed to have a monkey running loose in the kitchen?"

This, now. This I have to see.

*

"She's not my monkey," says Richard Bordeaux-Gaunt.

"Well," says Bushy. "She didn't start out as his monkey."

"We're not sure _whose_ monkey she is," volunteers Bagot.

Green gives the owner a sycophantic look and says, "I feel like she's yours _now_ , Richie."

Richard looks pleased with himself in spite of the situation, rubs the animal's nose, and feeds it a blueberry he definitely just got out of an open carton on a prep station.

I turn to Aumerle, hoping the head chef can inject _some_ sense into the proceedings. "Do you know how the monkey got here?"

Aumerle presses a finger to his temple, the chef's hat drooping to one side as though it too has seen the hopelessness of the situation. "I don't know how I got here sometimes," he murmurs.

"You have to get rid of him," I tell Richard.

"Get rid of _Aumerle_?" Richard arches an indignant eyebrow; Aumerle, for his part, looks almost hopeful.

"You can keep your chef," I say. (Sorry, Aumerle.) I point to the monkey and say, "Get rid of him."

Richard puts a hand protectively on the monkey's forehead. "Lola is a _she_." As though my misgendering of his capuchin is the real problem here.

"Sorry," I say. I make sure I'm directing my apology to Lola. "But listen. Put her in a cage. Take her home, buy her a private monkey castle. I don't care. But she can't be in the food preparation _or_ service area. This is very fucking basic. All right? If you work with me, we're going to have some new rules and the first rule is no monkeys in the kitchen. Is that clear?"

They all nod, agreeably enough, except Green, who whispers something to Bushy. "No," Bushy says out loud. "That was a lemur."

Apparently I have to be more specific. "No pri – no _non-human primates_ in the kitchen _or_ dining room."

"Is a hedgehog primates?" Bagot loud-whispers.

"We don't have her anymore," Richard says sharply. "It's moot."

"We don't have her?" Bagot sounds distressed.

"There was a mixup with the sea urchins on sushi night," says Bushy.

"Sushi was a mistake," Aumerle says quickly. Then, "Richard doesn't want to talk about that."

"I don't," Richard agrees.

"All right," I say. "No non-human animals – alive or dead – in the food service areas – unless they are food." I decide not to think about what might have happened to the hedgehog, and instead take an opportunity to steer the conversation back in a productive direction. "Food should be prepared and handled according to food safety protocols. Who is in charge of making sure those are implemented?"

There's a long pause, and then Bagot ventures, "Henry?"

"Henry who doesn't work here any more?" I say, with just the slightest hope I'm misunderstanding.

"I don't want to talk about Henry," declaims Richard. And he stalks off, carrying his monkey.

*

Ten minutes before the start of dinner service, I find half the waitstaff – a girl and two guys -- in an alley, sharing a cigarette break. 

"So who's in charge in the dining room tonight?" I ask, and they all jump a little. One of the blokes, a broad-shouldered ginger, says, "I am!" with full-throated confidence. This would be reassuring, except at the same time the other guy -- tall and skinny with rumpled hair-- raises a hand and says, "Me, I think?" I lock eyes with the girl, and we share a look that tells both of us _she_ is in charge, even if the men haven't noticed it yet.

The burly redhead introduces himself, in a vague Northern accent, as Harry Percy. He mumbles something about getting a real job for his gap year, building character, and I probably know his Da from around and that sort of thing. And I _do_ know Percy Senior, a developer with more money than taste who bankrolls restaurants, including probably this one. Young Percy blathers on enough to establish that he's performed the impressive feat of becoming more useless than his father. The other kid introduces himself as Hal and drags on his cigarette while we talk. He's only been out of bed for an hour or two, probably, and looks hungover as fuck.

Fortunately the girl, Kate, is full of actual useful information, which is refreshing. In a place with a kitchen run this badly, waitstaff get demoralized easily. It's not their fault when nothing's on time, or the right temperature, or free of _monkey hair_ , but they get yelled at by the punters. Meanwhile, it's their job to cover for whatever the kitchen fucks up, and if they're paying any attention, they can tell you exactly what needs fixing. 

Listening to Kate, I get some good ideas for how to get service in working order, and I only spend half the time wondering which of these idiots she's fucking. That sounds sexist, but it's the opposite. If a smart woman hangs around a disaster like Albion, when she could clearly do better, there's probably a less-smart-man behind it. And sure enough, when five o'clock rolls around and they head back to the dining room, Ginger McGapYear snogs Kate on the neck and slaps her bum. She returns his kiss, but when he and Hal head inside, Kate hangs back and catches my eye.

"I'm sure you get this all the time," she says, stuffing the cigs back into her purse, pretending that's what was holding her up. "But I hope it's clear I know my stuff and – I'm not saying I'm qualified to work at one of _your_ restaurants, but maybe, if you happen to hear of a place at another restaurant – really any restaurant but this restaurant."

"I do get that all the time," I tell her, though I try to sound kind about it.

"I could bring Harry along. He's good at – well, he can – you saw his shoulders. He can lift heavy things. That's – maybe useful?"

"No promises but – I'll see if anything comes up."

Kate sighs. "It was worth a shot."

*

I shouldn't be surprised when I get the call from Henry. He'd like to have a talk, a business kind of talk, and maybe if I don't mind, he'll cook something for me? It's all very Henry, the way he seems like he's asking you for a favor, but you end up backed into a space where it's bloody hard to say 'no.'

Besides. I'm curious. 

So I meet him at one of The Gaunt Conglomerate's less-frequented restaurants, in the middle of the afternoon. He flips the 'Closed' sign over the door, seats me in the dining area with a cup of coffee and, eight minutes later, presents me with a steaming hot omelette. Unlike his father, Henry doesn't bother to pretend he doesn't watch my show, or know my famous theorem: any chef who doesn't know his fundamentals well enough to cook a proper omelette isn't worth my time. 

"Clever," I say, and he watches me with puppy dog eyes, while I bite into it. Goat cheese and fresh tomatoes with a few chilis for just the right amount of heat. It tastes suspiciously like one of _my_ recipes, but I don't split hairs. I was afraid he would present me with an "improved" version of the curried chicken ravioli that I'd booted him off _MasterChef_ for, and I'd have to come up with something new to say about it. Now I can just say, "Not bad," and then, "Stop watching me chew and tell me why I'm here."

"Ahh." Henry wrings his hands. "Ahh, you understand – I don't have anything against Richard."

Now, personally, I find that kind of unsolicited denial suspicious. Especially when it's about somebody who shitcanned you under mysterious circumstances, doing untold damage to your career and reputation, and replaced you with your own less qualified cousin. "Nothing?" I say. "Not even the monkey?"

"Oh God." Henry literally facepalms. "He swore to me he was getting rid of it. Oh damn, maybe that was the lemur," he mutters, then looks up at me. "I didn't get fired because of the monkey."

"I don't need to know."

"The circumstances were very complicated –"

"I don't need to know," I repeat. "You know your father has asked me to put Albion on my show, right? As an example of a _failing_ restaurant."

"Isn't that what your show is? I assume you don't go in unless the owners ask you to."

"Usually the owners are desperate. Your father is the least-likely-to-be-desperate man I've ever met. I don't know what his game is unless it's making Richard look bad on television."

"And you're having an attack of conscience about that?

"I don't know. We got some quality test footage – mostly yelling at Richard about the monkey. But that just seems like playing into Jack's hands and --" I frown at him. "Should I be having an attack of conscience?"

Instead of answering, Henry looks down at the plate. "How is the omelette, though? You can tell the truth."

"Fantastic," I say, which is basically true, though I don't exactly drench my tone in sincerity. From the way Henry flinches, it's clear he's not sure whether I mean it or not. I'm almost moved by his naked desperation for approval.

Then he goes on to say the most unlikely thing. "Have you seen my son while you were over there?"

It takes me a moment because I know I've met one or another of Henry's sons, at one of the parties having to do with one of the shows. That was five years ago or more, a lanky preteen with deliberately messy hair. And suddenly I picture the sullen young waiter. "Hal," I say. "He's –" Employed? "Still working there."

Henry shakes his head and laughs, without humour. "Yes. Well. Richard hired him. Hal likes to be where I'm not."

"Ahh," I say.

Henry looks up at me and shrugs. "I have no idea what Jack's game is either."

*

Well. I might have walked away before (I probably wouldn't have walked away; still, I _might_ have), but now I'm just too fucking curious. I have my people call Richard's people, and we're set up to film a typical Saturday night's dinner service.

But when I get there, the crew's still out in the street, looking none-too-pleased, and there's a sign across the (locked) front door that says, "CLOSED GAS LEAK RESERVATIONS WILL BE HONOURED ON FUTURE DATE." I bang on the door, and I'm about to give up and let my people know we've got the night off, after all, when Richard's head pops out.

"Oh!" he exclaims. "Was this _tonight_? Come in!" He grabs my arm and pulls me -- only me -- through the door, and lets it bang shut behind him. "Don't worry, old boy. There's no gas leak."

Of course. That makes sense. "You know this isn't how reservations work, right?"

"Something's come up. I'm just here by myself and then I'm heading over to the hospital –" 

At this point, Teddy Aumerle emerges from the kitchen, wearing a half-open chef's jacket and finger-combing his hair. His eyes widen when he sees me. "Oh, fuck, was that _tonight_?"

"I told you to stay in the kitchen!" Richard hisses. Then, as though we can cut this part out in post-production and run the film from the beginning and I won't remember what just happened, he says, "Teddy and I were just here checking on a few things and now we're going to head over to the hospital. . ."

"Who's in hospital?" 

"Oh, you didn't hear from Uncle Jack's people?" Richard frowns. "That's odd. Well, it's a highly unfortunate situation, of course, but it appears Jack Gaunt will be incapacitated for the immediate future."

"They think it's a stroke," says Aumerle.

"Oh, God, that's awful," I say and I mean it. Jack's never been my favourite person, but he's a human being and also a legend in this business, in this town. Aside from baseline human empathy and the reminder of shared mortality that a situation like this creates – he's a competitor, and there's the whole business of the devil you know. 

"It's so terrible," says Aumerle. "Poor man."

Here's the thing. Doing what I do for as long as I have -- working with people who aren't trained actors, and getting them to project some semblance of 'reality.' It's not as easy as you think to figure out when people are showing authentic emotion. But you do get a sense for when they're trying to sell you the reaction that they think you think they ought to be having. 

Aumerle, now. He's talking about how worried he is about poor Uncle Jack. He's frowning like he saw frowning in a movie once and is trying to remember how it goes. 

Richard chimes in. "We have to go see him. Right away. It will be such a shame if we lose him." He's been taking the same frowning lessons as Aumerle, although he's better at it. 

But maybe I'm being paranoid. People deal with loss in different ways. Maybe I've been at this too long and it's making me cynical . . .

Then I hear laughter from the direction of the kitchen. Richard's eyes turn that way, his mouth working in obvious distress (There's a genuine reaction; why the fuck did I leave the cameras outside?) Bushy, Green, and Bagot wander into the dining room, passing an open bottle of Dom Perignon among themselves. "Dickie boy," calls one of the idiots. "You're still here? Shouldn't you be checking on old Jack?"

"And don't forget to take your solicitor," says another. "Wouldn't want the old man to pop off and take his money with him!"

"It's not what it looks like?" Richard tells me. He's not even trying anymore, probably because he sees I'm already headed for the door. "I'll call you!" he says.

"Fuck off," I suggest.

When I get outside, the producer's already sent everyone home, and she's just waiting for me to tell her she can go. She gets a cab but I decide to walk to the tube station, let off some steam, when, heading around the corner, I run into the three waiters I met before, continuing their semi-permanent smoke break.

". . .Did you hear those guys? I wouldn't be surprised if they poisoned the old man," says the Percy kid.

"I grew up with the old man," says Hal. "I wouldn't be surprised if he had it coming."

"You think it's smart to light up around a gas leak?" I ask. They all jump, but only because of me. The two blokes recover in time to say (do they always answer in unison?), "There's no gas leak."

Kate gives an apologetic smile. "Sorry no one gave you a heads up that the kitchen was closed."

"Obviously no one gave us a heads up either," snorts Percy. Then a phone on his hip buzzes, and he picks it up with the hand not occupied by a cigarette. "Huh. It's my father." He walks away, talking to the phone. "Uh huh? Yeah I just heard – what do you mean --?" And then he's around the corner.

Kate shrugs. 

I give Hal a hard look. He does have a bit of Henry in his face, and a whole lot of old Jack. I wonder how I missed it before. "You should go see your granddad," I tell him."

"Hmm."

"You might not get another chance."

He shrugs. "Maybe when the vultures clear out."

I can't exactly argue with that.

*

It's not that I'm angry. I'm just ready to go home, wash the metaphorical slime off, and hug my kids. I want to think not-too-hard about whether it bothers me that Jack Gaunt's family legacy has been thrown to a pack of greedy hyenas, or just that the scavengers do such a bad job of pretending to be anything else.

In any case, I'm ready to wash my hands of the whole thing. I send Jack a card in the hospital, and drop a donation to Oxfam in lieu of flowers, per instructions on the family Facebook page. The same page tells me that Mr. Gaunt is "stable" and that his loved ones are "hopeful of a speedy recovery." Which means bloody nothing, of course. I try calling Henry but he doesn't pick up, and I figure he has enough on his mind. His father's illness will have put his professional woes into perspective – and, to be honest, I'm rather looking forward to an Albion-drama-free lifestyle going forward.

But after a few days, the phone rings, and it's Richard. He's sorry for the delay and he's ready to get the filming back on schedule, as soon as possible.

"Back – on schedule?"

"Yes. It was a frightful piece of bad luck, poor Uncle Jack falling ill when he did. But an agreement is an agreement, and I assure you we'll do whatever we can. It will be simpler, really to go through me and not bother the poor old man."

Nobody calls on me for polite, safe-for-work feedback, I remember. "Richard. You do realize that your uncle only set this up because he wanted to make you look like a fucking idiot in front of the whole country?"

"I'm sure that's not –"

"I'm sure it _is_. Trust me. There's no good outcome for you, going through with this show –"

"Oh, my good man, I strongly disagree with that. The gossip networks are buzzing with wild rumours about our so-called problems. Through your program, we can ensure the nation that everything has been resolved and that the future of Albion can be as bright as its past. It's true we had encountered some cash flow problems –"

"No one was paying their bills," I say bluntly. "You weren't paying your suppliers. Checks to your staff were bouncing. Except, mysteriously, to your _highly overpaid_ chefs, who happened to be your friends and possibly your –"

"That's all over!" Richard cuts in. "We have corrected the imbalance in our revenue streams and other than that –"

"Other than that, one of your idiot friends fileted a live hedgehog –"

"Please! Do not speak of her." I hear a sniffle on Richard's end of the line. "Rosie was very dear."

"Look," I say with a sigh. "I've made over some real disasters in my time, but in this case we'd both be better off to cut our losses and –"

"My solicitors will be sorry to hear that. Or rather your solicitors –"

"Bloody hell, Richard."

"Now now, old boy. An agreement is an agreement." 

*

So I'm stuck with this, and I don't have anybody to blame but myself – though, admittedly, it's more fun to blame Richard. (It might be more rational to blame Jack, but it's no _fun_ to take things out on a possibly dying man.)

Preparing the show itself, though, that doesn't go so badly. The producers are relieved they don't have to plan a whole different program, and Albion is in better shape than a lot of the nightmares we've attempted to rehab. Aumerle's a genuinely good chef, and once I convince the rest of the kitchen to listen to him (in the guise of listening to me), we've got a new and improved menu and processes in place to make sure it's executed correctly.

Percy apparently quit the day after Gaunt's stroke – he had something come up, Hal tells me vaguely -- which leaves Kate running the front of house in name as well as in fact. She's gleeful about changing around the way things are run, the way she's always known they should be. She treats the whole process – smartly, correctly – as a tryout for a better job somewhere in the future. Her smoke breaks get shorter, and they turn into one-on-one confabs with Hal. Which will serve Percy right if this turns into something between them, while he has more important gap year things to do. 

As for Richard – I can't avoid putting him on camera because, unsurprisingly, the camera fucking loves him and also, you never know what's going to come out of his mouth. That's what makes reality television work, and the looks on my camera crew's face tells me they know it. I hope Richard doesn't think he's getting a hero edit, though. Because an agreement's an agreement, and the transformation from raw footage to on-air narrative is under _my_ control.

When we get to the big night, Albion's soft relaunch, I'm hopeful we'll get not only a good episode but a legitimately good dining experience out of this. Not that I have any faith in Richard not to fuck it up going forward. Maybe he got his hands on more of his sick uncle's money – I haven't been able to confirm this because the Chief Financial Officer, Richard's Aunt Edna, hasn't return my research assistant's calls – but it hardly matters. He'll end up blowing any new revenue streams, the same as the old ones. All I care about is that, looking back from the eventual wreck of the good ship Albion, no one will be able to say _I_ didn't do _my_ part.

The night begins smoothly, with the first few diners cooing over the wine list, and the appetizers coming out fast and fresh and hot. The waitstaff is efficient and pleasant. Even Hal looks unusually awake, and I catch him cracking jokes with the diners. 

The moment of truth will be at seven, when the large party that reserved the head table is scheduled to arrive. Tonight's diners come from a select group of VIP's, who were sent invitations ahead of time. This particular table was offered to Henry Percy, Senior, who requested a place for himself and twelve guests. "The last supper," muses Richard, giving a wry laugh as he comes to the front, planning to greet them personally.

A clock in some nearby church tower begins to chime seven, and Percy appears at the door, arm in arm with his wife. Young Harry walks in behind him, wearing a fashionably rumpled blazer. He offers a grin and mock salute to Kate, who starts to smile back, then freezes, in a way that makes us all look at the door. After the Percies comes Aunt Edna, the CFO, along with her husband and a parade of other elegantly dressed men and women. Finally, bringing up the rear, a man I should have expected to see but somehow hadn't.

"Hello, Richard," says Henry. "Can you call our cousin Edward out here? I'd like to give my compliments to the chef." 

*

It's Hal, of all people, who speaks up first. "You haven't eaten anything yet."

"Son," says Henry, and now he's the one trying for a tone he's seen on some screen somewhere and not quite getting it right. Cold command with exactly the right blend of compassion. He just sounds awkward and insincere. "I'm sorry you're caught in the middle of this."

"Don't be," says Hal. Then he picks up the bottle of wine he was in the middle of pouring, takes a swig from the neck of it, and drops his waiter's jacket on the floor. He doesn't look back at Kate, or me, or Richard, but treads past his father and out the front door. One of the Percy kid's broad shoulders shoves against Hal as he's leaving, but it might be an accident. 

Hal takes the bottle with him.

Then it's young Percy who nods at Henry, says, "I'll do it," and strides back toward the kitchen. He bangs on the swinging door, sticks his head in and says, "Aumerle! Out here. Actually – you too. And you. All of you. No, turn that off, you won't be needing it."

"The kitchen is closed," Henry informs the dining room. "I'm sorry for disrupting your evening. Leave your contact information with Mrs. Aumerle – " He nods toward Edna. "You'll be reimbursed for your time and money."

I clear my throat. "Actually, _my_ people paid for this."

Henry turns to me, slowly, and blinks as though he's noticing me for the first time. "Oh, you're here?"

"I'm sure you hadn't noticed the cameras," I say drily.

Richard must be tired of the attention drifting away from him, because he finally gathers himself enough to gasp, "What – is – the – meaning –of --?"

Henry whirls toward him. "I'm glad you asked." Pointing at the chefs who have just followed Harry Percy out of the kitchen, he says, "Bushy! Bagot! Green! You're fired. Out now. If I determine that anything here actually belongs to one of you, I'll send it after you."

"You can't –" Richard wails.

But the three sous chefs aren't worried about such niceties, and they don't have to be told twice. They push for the side exit, shoving aside the already irate patrons, who are headed for the doors themselves.

"Aunt Edna!" Richard protests. "Tell Henry he can't."

"The thing is, Richard," the CFO sighs. "I have done everything I can to support you. I have stood by and watched –" She wipes an eye. "But you understand that your ownership of this restaurant depended on my investment – and the ownership interests you yourself sold to Mr. Percy."

"You what?" cries Teddy. Then, "Is that what you meant about cash flow? I thought –"

"Thought what?" Henry snapped. "That he'd managed to steal my father's money while he was lying in hospital?"

"I never –" Richard choked out. "Where on earth did you hear –" Then he turns to me and narrows his eyes. "This is low. Even for a -- _celebrity restaurateur_."

"It wasn't me," I shoot back. Then I see Kate's eyes turn to young Percy, and mine follow.

"They weren't exactly subtle about it," Percy sniffs. 

"Goddamit, Harry!" Kate exclaims.

"So you're saying –" Richard speaks quietly, yet somehow commands the whole room. "This – this Albion. It isn't my restaurant anymore?"

"Don't make a fuss, Richard," says Henry.

"I will make whatever I like! This was my place. Mine. I had such plans for this restaurant. It was my home." He raises a sleeve to dab his eye. "I was going to make it so beautiful. But that's all done. It's behind us." He turns to Aumerle. "Come with me, Teddy."

The young chef hesitates, just a moment too long. Richard's jaw drops. Teddy backs, almost unconsciously, toward his mother. She places a hand on his shoulder. "It's not your fault, son," she soothes. 

"There's a place for you, Edward," Henry assures him. "It's my kitchen, of course. I'll be taking it back. But I've always thought you had so much promise and no one blames you."

Teddy hesitates, looks back at Richard, then toward his mother, then Henry. "I'm sorry," he says, though it's unclear who he's speaking to. He gives Henry his hand.

With a primal wail, Richard drops to his knees. "Oh," he says. "Oh, _Albion._.

*

"Well," I say at the end of the evening. "We certainly got some footage."

"For sure," agrees the camerawoman. "And hey, it looks like there's a lot of leftover food. Do you think anyone would mind if the crew –?"

"About that," says Henry, sidling up from out of nowhere.

"Let's just pack up and get out of here," I tell her. "I'll have catering ready when we get back to the studio."

"Oh, they're welcome to the food," says Henry. "But – if you wouldn't mind leaving the cameras." He holds up a hand as though that can squelch the tide of profanity I'm about to unleash at him. "I'll give you receipts for everything and I'll reimburse you for the film. But as the new owner, and on behalf of several of my family members and colleagues who would be depicted without their consent – I can't agree to let this footage leave the building."

"Oh, hell no. I had an agreement with –" With Henry's father. Cosigned by Richard. Neither of whom owns the restaurant anymore. "Oh bloody fucking hell." I stare at him. "What the hell happened? _Did_ they poison your father?"

Henry raises an eyebrow in mild surprise. "Honestly? I thought you were smarter than that."

*

Well. I call my solicitor, and Henry calls the police to keep the cameras from leaving the premises, and the camera crew call their union, and there's more yelling and cursing and threats, and nobody has sorted anything out by the time I just fucking have to get out of there.

My producer promises to call as soon as she knows what's happening, and I leave through the side door. A long black town car is loitering there, with the window down. I meet the occupant's eyes, and I call after him, but by the time I get there, he's put up the window and torn away from the curb. Maybe I'm losing it, and the driver is just doing the rational thing when a mad-as-hell celebrity restaurateur runs after you, swearing. But if I'm not losing my mind, I'm pretty sure the man in the back seat was Jack Gaunt.

"What the _hell_?" I demand to the heavens.

"If I had to guess," says a voice above me. "I'd say he was never even sick." I look up and there, legs swinging from the fire escape, is Hal. He's still holding the wine bottle he left with. "I'd offer you a drink, which I imagine you need, but –" He tips the bottle over to show that it's empty, and shrugs an apology.

"So your grandfather set all of this up? For sympathy? Power? Just to fuck with everyone?"

"A little from Column A, a little from Column B --" Hal slides through the metal bars, does a graceful little flip, and lands on his feet beside me. "And C and D. Ad infinitum."

"And your father – was Henry with him all along? Was Jack playing _Henry_?"

"Yes." Hal's smile twitches with amusement. "And yes. And yes. Hang around the family long enough, you get used to it."

"Well." I shake my head. "This is either going to be a hell of a show or a hell of a lawsuit."

"And I will endeavor to be as far away from it as possible."

"I'm opening a new cafe in Shoreditch," I tell him. "If I hire Kate as front of house, do you want to come too?"

"And if it's just me on my own?"

"Not worth it," I tell him, frankly.

He doesn't show any offense. "You won't get Kate, either, sadly. She's gonna yell at Percy all night for this stunt. But in the end, she'll be too worried about what he's getting into to leave him on his own, and she'll end up wherever he is." He wrinkles his nose. "I suppose it's love or something."

"I was afraid of that."

"Wish I could give you better news. Although –" He glances at his watch. "Are you up for staying out a bit longer?" 

"Depends," I say warily.

"Well, my friend. I understand you collect nightmare kitchens? I can show you wonders you've never dreamed of."

"I doubt it."

"Believe me. You may travel near and far but, I promise. You have never seen the like of the Boar's Head."

And with that, we head off towards Eastcheap. Because why the hell not?


End file.
